Tactile
by JenJadeEyes
Summary: LO: Criminal Intent. Bobby and non-ship OC delve into grief. Can Bobby help someone else? A/N: Complete. I'm almost positive this time!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I didn't do it - it's Dick Wolf's fault!

Timeframe: Before Season 8

A/N: This started out as one thing and ended up another. I hope it still makes sense. It also started off as a one-shot; it didn't stay that way.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in front of the library stack. He came to the University Library because it was close to 1PP, it was open late, and because both copies of the extremely heavy psychology tome by Bruener were kept on the top shelf, above his own extremely high eye level; sometimes he thought he was the only person who had bothered to remove either one of them in the four years he'd been coming here to use it as a personal and professional reference.

Obviously, this wasn't the case, as neither copy was on the shelf now. He banged the shelf in disgust as he strode to a computer workstation, pecking his way through the screens until he discovered that one copy had been checked out, but the other was listed as "on the shelf".

"If it were on the shelf, I wouldn't be standing here, you stupid machine," he grumbled. He cast his eyes across the room, looking for the book at empty desks, on return shelves; there was no-one else on the floor, yet the book was not in its place. Snapping his fingers, he began to move toward the study rooms lining the back wall. He could see lights off in three of the five rooms; the fourth was occupied by a young man with blue hair who looked entirely too young to be in high school, much less college; and in the fifth was a woman, sleeping with her head and arms down on the table, the Bruener in a stack of books on the nearest corner.

He ran a hand over his face as he contemplated his next step. He could try to find the Bruener tomorrow at his local library, but it was highly unlikely such a scholarly work would be available there. He could come back to the University tomorrow and see if one was still available - but if this woman checked out the last remaining copy who knows how long it would be before he could copy the chapter he wanted to review for his case? He seemed to be down to two options: he could wake the woman and ask to borrow the book momentarily; or he could remove the Bruener, copy the chapter he wanted to review, and return the book to the study room with the sleeping student none the wiser. At his side, he rubbed the fingers of his left hand against his left thumb as his magician's heart envisaged how the disappearing act might play out.

An announcement came over the loudspeakers; the library would be closing in 15 minutes. If he wanted the chapter, he had to make a move now. He used every bit of the stealth he had learned as a child to massage the door open without a sound, and took a step into the room, hand extended to reach the title he wanted. As he did so, he noticed several things. First, the desk was covered in photographs, much the same way he put up crime scene photos on the board in the squad-room. Second, all of the photographs were of the same family group; a father, a mother, a young girl, and a younger boy. The woman was stroking the set of photos closest to her right hand; the fingers of her left were fiddling with a solid gold band. An iPod sat on the desk, playing a video of the father in the photos strumming a 12-string Rickenbacker; there was an earbud running to one ear, with the other sitting on the table next to the device. The table underneath her face was wet with tears. She hadn't been sleeping. She'd been communing with the dead.

"Get out," she stated flatly.

He tilted his head, flipping through his options. Hand still outstretched, he mumbled, "Do you mind if I borrow the...?"

Her left hand dropped the ring, shot out and pushed all the books to the floor. "Take all of them, I don't care. Just get out."

He moved to one knee to retrieve the scattered volumes; he could feel her red-rimmed gaze like a sharp stick poking the side of his face. His jaw clenched as he meticulously avoided looking at her; he was working hard to not feel his own pain, he certainly didn't want to consider hers. The tension radiating off her was like a horrible caress; he felt he couldn't move while under its thumb. God, was this how Eames had been feeling around him lately? No wonder she'd been so... snippy. He stood, placing every book but the Bruener neatly back on the desk. He couldn't think of one socially appropriate thing to say to extricate himself from this situation gracefully; in fact the one thing he wanted to know was bound to draw him in more.

"How long has he been dead?"

Her head still on the table, she moved her gaze to his face. "Do you play guitar?" she rasped.

He flinched at the sudden shift in topic; then shook his head, placed the hand not holding the book in his pocket.

"A year," she replied to his earlier question. "And not one of these damn books tells you what to do when your youngest barely remembers and your oldest can't forget."

He turned to face her, and she closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation. He moved toward the door, opened it.

"I'll bring this right back," he offered, as he left the room.

As he fumbled around, conducting the book in and out of the copy machine as he fed quarters into the coin accepter, he tried to dismiss the part of his brain that focused on the woman in the study room. He didn't like that he could see his own pain reflected in her eyes, hear it in her speech. It came uncomfortably close to feeling. If he could just distract himself, concentrate on something else, everything would be fine.

By the time he decided what else he could turn his attention to, he had finished his copying. He set the book down, tore a piece of notebook paper out of his portfolio, and wrote out three volumes that specifically dealt with children and grief. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. Then he heard his mother's voice from long ago, telling him to be a gentleman; before she was so sick, and the conversations turned predominantly nasty. He rarely thought of the time before she was so sick anymore. He fished the paper out of the trash, smoothed it out with his hands, picked the book up off the copier, took a deep breath, and returned to the study room. This time, he tapped softly on the door before pressing it open.

She had cleared out in the short time he'd been gone.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This started out as one thing and ended up another. I hope it still makes sense. It also started off as a one-shot; it didn't stay that way.

Bobby sat the book down and flattened his hand on the empty table. He'd only been gone five minutes and the room was bare. If he moved quickly...

Running for the stairs, he wondered what in the world he was doing. He didn't want to talk to some random stranger about his pain, why was he thinking about disturbing her? He contemplated it as he descended from the third story to the first; the answer didn't come to him.

Breathing heavily, wondering when running downstairs got to be so tough, he knocked on the checkout desk to get the attention of the twitchy young man behind the desk who was scanning a computer for god-knows-what at nearly 10 p.m. on a Friday.

"Did you see a woman pass by here? Average build and height, strawberry blonde hair, straight, shoulder length, dark shirt, had an iPod, some pictures, not in the best of moods, may have checked out psychology books?" he gasped.

The young man's eyes bulged, staring at him as if he had lost his mind. Bobby was used to people looking at him that way, so it really didn't phase him. He laid his portfolio down on the desk, pulled his badge out of his pocket, slapped it onto his portfolio, then pushed, "Well?" The boy's eyes darted down to the badge, then sideways.

"You talking about the Friday Crier? Yeah, she left a little while a ago. Didn't check out anything, though. Left from the Hudson Street exit."

He put a hand down on the desk, turned his body toward the exit mentioned, and smoothed his beard as he thought about all the options she had once she reached the doors. A subway station to the left, bodegas and residential areas to the right, and on the street, any number of taxis to be hired. Too many options to try and track down the right one. He turned back to the boy behind the desk and tilted his head at the moniker the youth had slapped on the distressed woman. "Friday Crier?"

There must have been something in his tone, Bobby thought. He'd never seen anyone actually blanch before. He made a mental note to take the time later to think about the tone he'd used, to save it for a suspect when he needed it...

The pale young man called to an unseen co-worker. "Thomas, you've dealt with the Crier, right? The cop here wants to know about her."

A thinner young man with a more studious appearance stepped out from behind a shelving unit in the back. He moved to the front desk, ran his fingers over Goren's badge as if to check its veracity, then looked up at him. "I'm afraid I don't know much, Detective," he intoned. "She comes in about once a month, always late on Friday. She takes a study room on the third floor, makes handwritten notes for about an hour, then stays in the room until we close." The man crossed his arms and looked over at his co-worker. "Chase knocked on the door once, during midterms. Tried to remove her. She was... a little upset at the time. I check the rooms on Friday nights now. She's been less... demonstrative... lately." The young man uncrossed his arms, noticed the trickle of students making their way to the checkout counter. "Was that of any help?"

Bobby nodded, picked up his portfolio, and replaced his badge in his pocket. "It's more than I had a few minutes ago," he replied, as he quickly moved toward the elevators.

"Detective, the library is closing," the studious young man called.

"I left something upstairs. It'll just take a minute," Bobby called as he stepped through the closing doors.

As the elevator made its short ascent, he opened his portfolio, and scribbled down his description of the woman and the items with her, then added the information the library workers had given him. When the doors opened, he moved quickly to her study room, and looked again to see if he had missed any obvious clues there. She hadn't dropped a photo, forgotten her jacket, left a notebook... Notebook. He moved to the trash can, dumped its contents on the table, shuffled through the flat papers, and finding only doodles and notes in an Asian script he was unfamiliar with, he began opening the balled up wads.

The third one he opened looked as if it could be hers; scanning the page with his hand, he stopped midway, recognizing a passage from Bruener. Unfolding the rest of the pages, he noted two others with the same handwriting, and shoved them all into his notebook as the overhead speaker announced the library was now closed. He returned to the first floor, waited for the other patrons to leave, then walked up to the two young men again, handing over one of his business cards and asking them to call him when the woman returned. Thomas raised his eyebrows, questioning, "She's not in any trouble, is she?"

"No, I just wanted to... she mentioned that..." he fumbled. He started again, but it didn't seem to get any easier. "I had some infor... No. She's not in trouble." he finished. The boy looked at him with no small amount of confusion. Goren realized how odd he sounded, but was unwilling to try and explain more. He knocked his hand on the counter. "Well, then... Thanks." And then he walked out the Hudson Street exit, wondering where she had gone, and if she'd be able to sleep when she got there. He pondered where her children went on Fridays once a month, and if that time was the only time she allowed herself to grieve. He speculated as to why she came to a university library to think about her husband, instead of any other place on earth. He thought about whether he could get one of the sketch artists at 1PP to work off the books without word getting back to Ross.

As he rode the subway home, unwilling to look at the pages he'd gathered until he could really focus on them, he rubbed his fingers over his portfolio, trying through osmosis to absorb the information he hoped they contained.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday found Bobby at his desk early, using the printer in the bullpen to print out various pieces of information he had collected relating to the 'Friday Crier'. He gathered information about the university's psychology alumnae, thinking she might be so comfortable in that library at that table because she had spent time there as a student. He tracked down all the references on the pieces of paper he collected from the wastebasket; he recognized some quotes from Bruener, and there were quotes from Williams, McGraw, and other prominent psychologists; there were also various song lyrics, all attributable to George Harrison's 'All Things Must Pass' album. He was researching local grief support groups when Eames arrived at her desk, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly as she sat down. Bobby looked up at her, noticing for the first time how uncomfortable she seemed to be in her own space. He wondered briefly if it was because her space was so close to his. He didn't like where that thought led him, so he redirected it.

"Eames, do you know if anyone here has guitar knowledge?" he asked.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Why? Did something come up on the Richardson case?" she replied.

"No, it's personal. Just wondered. It's not important, really," he countered. She took another deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "Want coffee?" he continued, standing.

"Sure," she replied, her eyes a bit unfocused, as if searching for something in her memory. When he returned, he saw that she had found it. "Ritchie plays guitar."

"Okay, thanks. If you don't mind, I'm gonna try and catch him before he heads out for the day."

She nodded, then opened the Richardson file. "I'm gonna verify our interview time with Miranda Phelps for this morning." Bobby nodded, stood up and grabbed a printout of a red guitar, then headed to Ritchie's desk.

As he approached, Ritchie eyed him warily; Goren imagined he could see sweat starting to appear on his balding head. He thought to himself, 'Okay, turn off thoughtful look that people find intimidating, approach with curiosity about his interests...' He forced a half-smile to his face as he approached. "Ritchie, I'm wondering what you can tell me about this guitar other than it's a 12-string Rickenbacker."

Ritchie's eyebrows rose. "It's a sweet axe. Yours?"

Goren smirked. "What I know about guitars would fit on the back of my business card with room to spare. A friend of a friend plays one like this, and I've been invited to a birthday party..."

"Ah, so you need a gift idea. Well, it's the modern version of George Harrison's guitar; does your friend's friend play a lot of Beatles tunes?"

Bobby thought about the song lyrics written on the pages on his desk and forgot to answer the question he'd been asked. "Would Harrison have used it on 'All Things Must Pass'? I know he plays stuff off that album..."

Ritchie shook his head in reply. "No, the Rick was strictly a 60's sound for Harrison; '64 to '66. When they stopped touring he stopped playing it."

Goren tilted his head as he absorbed that information. The he queried, "What do you get a guitarist you don't know all that well? What does every guitarist need?"

"Strings, man, especially with a 12-string," Ritchie replied. He scribbled on the back of a business card pulled from the holder on his desk. "I know a couple of vintage shops that stock good quality ones; if you don't find them there you can order them online." Bobby took the card Ritchie proffered. Ritchie tentatively offered a small smile. "Now you have two business cards worth of knowledge."

And then the strangest thing happened. Goren laughed.

**********************************

After finishing her phone call with Ms. Phelps, Alex turned to watch her partner wave his hands in concert with something he was saying to Ritchie. She was surprised by Goren's unusual chattiness this morning. She couldn't remember the last time he'd initiated a non-work related conversation with her, and even though it was an extremely short conversation, she took it as a sign of progress. Alex looked back to her computer, called up directions to the Phelps residence, and printed them out, in addition to some forms she needed to fill out for the case. She went to the printer, picked up her pages and a few printouts that had Bobby's name at the top, and walked back to their desks, sorting through them as she went. Then she noticed that Bobby's pages held information on local grief support groups. She froze, wondering if she should return them to the printer so that he wouldn't know she'd seen them; she didn't want to do anything to cause him embarrassment, keep him from getting help. Alex decided to shuffle them to the bottom of the stack and set them on his desk. As she walked over to do just that, she heard something. It was a sound she recognized, but hadn't heard in quite a while. Bobby was laughing.

Standing absolutely still, she turned her head to look at Ritchie's desk. She suddenly noticed that the squad room had quieted, and she wasn't the only one looking on as Bobby put a business card in his front coat pocket, thanked Ritchie, and then turned back toward his desk. She quickly moved from his side of the desk to hers, trying to keep the amazement at his good humor off her face.

"Is it quiet in here?" Bobby asked quizzically as he sat down at his desk.

"I hadn't noticed," she lied. "Are you ready to head out?"

Goren grabbed all the pages she'd brought back and placed them in his portfolio. He began rifling through the file folders on his desk. Alex held the Phelps file out to him. He nodded, taking it from her and adding it to his portfolio, then zipping it up and standing. "Ready to go."

She nodded back at him, took a quick look toward Ritchie, who seemed no worse for his encounter with Bobby, and then turned for the elevators.

***********************************

He stopped at the vintage guitar shops Ritchie had recommended. He discovered that Rickenbacker 12-strings weren't all that rare in New York City, and that neither of the places he stopped had easily accessible records of who had purchased packages of Rickenbacker strings. He also discovered that the visual style of that guitar hadn't changed much over its 30+ years of production, and without the video, he'd never be able to determine the year it was made in order to narrow the scope of his search. Bobby decided that this line of research had hit a dead end and he abandoned it.

Over the next few weeks, Bobby visited a few of the grief support groups on his printout, knowing he couldn't really ask around for the woman he sought, but hoping he'd luck into finding her. Although he was surprised to find it somewhat cathartic to listen to how others were dealing with their grief, he felt no compunction to share his own grief with the people in attendance. He realized he had an idealized notion of the woman in the library; that somehow she could help him, and that others could not. And yet, it was a feeling he couldn't shake off. So he continued looking for her.

In the end it was traditional legwork that brought her back into his sphere. He had made a special effort to visit the university library every Friday he could, his work causing him to miss only two Fridays in the past few months. As he had every time, he walked over to the shelf with the Bruener, checking to see if it was there. It was, as it had been every other time he checked. Then he circled around the floor, walking past the doors of the study room, not pausing as he glanced in each window.

And then he stopped. There she was. Just like the last time she had items spread all over the table. Just like last time, her head was down on the table and she looked as if she were asleep. Quite inappropriately, a humorous quote popped into his mind; "It's deja vu all over again."

A calm came over him, caused him to pause. How long has it been since he felt calm instead of despair? Even in the interview room, he had still felt an underlying sadness, hollowness. This was different. It was just... calm. Or it could be numbness. That wouldn't be a good thing. Better not to think too much about that. He tapped on, then opened the door.

"Get out," she said flatly, without looking up. Another wave of deja vu washed over him.

He knew she couldn't leave without picking up all the things she had strewn about - he had at least one minute to keep her there. He stepped in, moved to the chair opposite her, and sat down, placing his portfolio down on the table, elbows on either side, and lacing his hands in front of his lips he fired his opening salvo. "You can't intimidate me the way you have the young men who work here."

Refusing to take his bait, she sat up and began collecting her things; the photos shoved back in an envelope, a messenger bag pulled from under the table. He knew he had to get her talking. If she was talking, she wasn't leaving. Bobby paused, knowing what he would do next would truly be disruptive, and giving one more thought as to whether it was a good idea. He opened his portfolio, and brought out the copious notes he had made on parenting children through grief. The discarded pages he had harvested from the wastebasket were on top of the stack. She stopped. He saw her recognize her own handwriting; saw her eyes flash with fury. She brought her eyes up to him. The sharp look she had given him before was back; only this time instead of a feeling like a stick poking him, it felt like an entire tree. He had to draw upon every once of self-control not to flinch under her unwavering gaze. He kept his hands apart on the table, body posture open and inviting, hoping that it encouraged her to stay, even if she wasn't yet talking. He took a deep breath and forged ahead.

"You might get more out of newer psychology researchers; Tomiyama has focused most of her career on children and grief, and Tiemens has done a lot of work on parenting through grief," Bobby observed. "Why were you looking at Bruener and McGraw? Their research is way out of date - it's at least 25 years old. It doesn't deal with the realities of today's older parents and smaller families. I pulled some of the more relevant research for you..." He began pushing the stack of papers towards her.

Pointedly ignoring the stack of paper now sitting in the middle of the table, she finished packing. "I can't fathom why you think my family issues are any of your business," she seethed, then stood and slung the strap of the bag over her shoulder and turned toward the door.

Before she could open it, however, Bobby walked over and placed his hand on it, making it impossible for her to continue out the door. She stood, hand on the door handle, eyes staring at his hand on the door, her irritation barely held in check. "Remove your hand," she bit out. When Bobby did not make any movement, she added in an even more acid tone, "Please."

"Wait," he started, standing behind her, and only able to see the back of her head, "I just wanted to talk..."

"Look, Professor," she snarled, "I'm not some charity case, and the last thing I want to do is talk about it."

"I'm not a professor; I'm a detective," he snapped back. "I'm in therapy so I can stay on the job. The man I talk to hasn't lost the person that..." Here he stopped, struggling with the next word, "...defined him. When I saw you here a couple of months ago, I thought to myself that you looked as tormented as I felt." He heard her intake of breath, and wondered if he was finally making a connection with her. With his hand still on the door, he leaned forward, tilting his head so that he could see her profile. Her face was a blank, as if her thoughts were far away, but her hand was shaking on the handle of the door.

"I don't want to 'share' with a counselor, I want to talk with someone who knows what hell feels like. So I've been looking for you." With his free hand he rubbed the back of his neck, hoping what he'd shared would be enough to convince her to stay; he honestly couldn't think of anything else he wanted to reveal before she agreed to stay and listen, so he pushed his hand off the door, and moved back to the far side of the table. He would have paced if there had been enough space in the small room, but since there wasn't, he stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for her reaction. She was quiet for what felt like an hour, but couldn't have been longer than a minute. He started to panic a bit, wondered what else he could say, when her voice cut through his swirling thoughts.

"Who was it?" she asked, without turning around.

Bobby froze in place, wondering why the hell he'd started this in the first place. He sat at the table and rubbed his forehead with his hand. Knowing it was too late to change his mind now, he answered. "Who did I lose? My mother. She, uh, she had schizophrenia. And cancer. I've been the son of a sick woman almost all my life. The dutiful, responsible son. Now she's gone, and I can't..." he trailed off. "I'm not... I don't know how to be just me. Without her."

She turned to face him, tears beginning to gather in the corner of her eyes. She squinted, as if to will them into non-existence. "My daughter would say that what you have is a great big ball of suck."

Bobby tilted his head at the unusual idiom. Then he slowly nodded. "Well, suck must be an avalanche running downhill, because everything has gone straight to hell since she died. My brother was killed recently, and my old mentor had a hand in his death. I don't enjoy my job anymore. I've lost everything that made me who I am. I often wonder if dying would be easier than living through this shit."

She sat, then nodded. "I wonder that, too, sometimes. I don't know what you expect me to be able to do for you. I'm barely handling my own life as it is."

"I don't know that I want you to do anything for me. I just felt connected to you, somehow. You made me think of my mom before she got very sick. Right after I met you, I was able to laugh for the first time in in what seems like forever. I don't know why. I thought if I saw you again..."

"...you'd feel all better?" She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

"...that I could help you somehow." He motioned toward the stack of papers still sitting in the middle of the table. She glanced at it warily. "I pulled all this research, because I knew where to find good information on children and grief. I don't know if it will be of any use to you. Maybe knowing you helped someone else would help you. I can't really explain my motivation. I haven't looked at it too closely."

She took a deep breath. He reflected that everyone seemed to be breathing deeply around him lately. She placed her hand on the stack of papers, pulled them to her; she raised her eyes up to meet his. "Thank you for this."

He looked away, folded his hands together on the table. "Where are your kids now?" he wondered.

She looked at his hands, sniffed away another tear. "With my mother-in-law. She works in the Administration Building next door. She takes them for a weekend once a month. They're all she has left of her son."

Bobby nodded. Now her choice of the library made perfect sense. Since she had opened up to him once, he wondered if she'd do it again. "Your daughter looks like your husband. Does that make it tougher on you, to see him in her every day?" he queried.

"Some days. Other days it's a comfort to us both."

The question that had burned within him since their last meeting came next. "Why did you ask me if I could play guitar?"

The address system above their heads crackled to life, announcing that the library would be closing in 10 minutes.

She stood and quickly stated, "Time's up."

He stood also, but pressed on with his questions as she gathered her things. "It just seems like an odd question. Here I interrupted your space, and you wanted to know if I had something in common with the person you were grieving for. Not the choice a lot of people would have made." Bobby's eyebrows now folded on themselves, causing deep furrows. "Did you want to talk about music? Did you want to talk about how well he played, what he liked to play? Is it the only subject you can focus on and feel some sort of happiness about?" He paused, waiting to see if she would respond. When she didn't, he continued; "I don't have to be able to play to..."

She interrupted him, her words coming out in a rush, laced with layers of emotion. "You have hands like his. That's why I asked you. Your hands look like his." Her hand slammed over her mouth after this revelation, as if holding in her words would somehow stop the anguish she felt.

Bobby took a step back at the maelstrom of emotions radiating from her. He could see the love she felt for her husband, the anger at being left behind, the guilt she felt for being angry; he wondered how she managed them all. Hell, he knew he hadn't managed to handle similar emotions regarding his mother.

She closed her eyes, trying to gain some control over her pained expression. After a few moments, she dropped her hand from her mouth and opened her eyes. She looked at his right hand, holding his portfolio. "I loved his hands." Her voice cracked as she said this, and Bobby felt a lump form in his throat. She turned and left the room without saying another word.

He thought about following her, but he figured he had caused enough trauma today. He wondered how long it would take her to find his contact information, which he'd written down in the notes he'd copied for her. He wasn't sure that she'd call him even if she did find it. He would have to be content with the thought that she had his information and would contact him if she wanted to. That would just have to be enough.

He realized he'd forgotten to ask her her name. He shook his head, snorted at his own self-involvement, and left the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Winter charged in suddenly; what was jacket weather a month ago was now definitely of the heavy coat variety. People were beginning to negotiate their holiday vacation time; Eames was trying to get Thanksgiving Day off so she could take her nephews and nieces to the Macy's parade. Ritchie wanted Christmas and the days immediately after or before so he could travel home to Michigan. Goren shrugged off the season in his usual manner by volunteering to work for both the Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday. Volunteering worked for his current situation; in addition to the much-needed overtime pay, it meant that he wasn't sitting at home thinking about how things could have been different.

He still spent his free Friday nights casing the library at the university; he hadn't run into the unnamed woman since they'd spoken six weeks ago. He was beginning to worry about her, and realized the fact that he simply forgot to get her name made her practically unreachable. Bobby wondered if she'd read the packet he'd assembled and if she had been able to put any of the information to good use. Thinking of his own situation, he wondered if she was having difficulty with the upcoming holidays. As he picked up extra hours here and there, he wondered if her financial situation was as dire as his.

On the Monday before Thanksgiving, he arrived at 1PP early and started organizing his desk for the day's work as he listened to Eames carrying on a conversation with someone regarding the best places to try and see the parade on Thursday. As he sorted through the mail he received, she bickered good-naturedly with the person on the other end of the line, and realized it must be her sister. Eames was discussing the finer points of parade watching; the length of time before seeing floats, the ability to move close to the barriers for unimpeded sight lines, the need to bring a backpack with layers of clothing and lots of snacks, the desire to have a bathroom available should the kids need to utilize one. He sat at his desk and marveled at all the details one had to think about to take a few kids out for a few hours, and admired Eames for handling all the little details with her usual aplomb.

As Eames talked, Bobby quickly disposed of his stack of interdepartmental mail, leaving only one Priority Mail envelope on his desk. He looked at the name and return address on the package, trying to get a handle on what it might contain. When he realized he didn't recognize the information on the outside of the package, he carefully nuanced the package open, dumping the contents onto his desk. When the George Harrison CD landed in the center of it, his breath left him in a rush of emotion. The mystery woman from the library had contacted him; when he had researched her handwritten pages several lyrics from this album had surfaced and he had marked them clearly. He scanned the shipping envelope for the name written on the mailing label, in hopes of finally putting a name to the woman who was grieving just as much as he. Disappointment filled him as he realized the name section had been left blank.

Eames bid her sister farewell, and turned her attention to him. "What's that?"

Bobby tore his eyes away from the envelope and looked up at her. Blinked his mind clear. Came up with a plausible story and went with it. "Oh, Lewis scratched one of my discs beyond repair and owed me a new one."

"So why'd he send it here?" she quizzed.

"I have no idea." Bobby scooped up the disc and the envelope and shoved them into one of his desk drawers. "What's up for today?"

About an hour later, when Eames wandered off for her usual coffee refueling, he ripped open the drawer and looked in the envelope again. Empty. As he picked up the CD, he ran his thumb over the case and noticed it was unwrapped. Opening it revealed a square sticky note attached to the inside of the front cover. He peeled the note off the cover, stuck it on his desk, and placed everything else back in his drawer before Eames returned. Only after he was in the clear did he look at the note.

"Shanghai Garden, Chinatown. Thursday, 8 p.m."

***********************

It took a moment to adjust to the warmth of the restaurant after walking a couple of blocks from the Chinatown subway station in the nearly-freezing temperatures. Removing his coat, he placed his hat and gloves in the pockets, and hung it up at the front of the establishment. He spent a self-consious moment smoothing his militarily short hair down after removing his cap, then proceeded to the hostess stand. He was surprised to see just how full the place was on Thanksgiving night; most patrons looked to be ethnic Chinese, with a smattering of the rest of Asia among the tables. There were precisely two Caucasian women the restaurant, which made finding his library confidant much easier.

"I'm joining her," he informed the host, pointing in direction of the booth she occupied. The host nodded, walking him over to the table and placing a menu on the table across from her. She glanced up at him, then flicked her glance away again quickly. She picked up the pot of hot tea, pouring him a glass as he sat. He wrapped a hand around the cup she'd poured, took a large sip, and looked across the table at her, searching her face. He wondered if her eyes were always red, or if she'd been crying again. Managing to avoid thinking about how to start a conversation with her the entire time he travelled here, his brow now furrowed as he realized he'd have to come up with something. Might as well start with the basics. "I'm Robert Goren. Bobby."

Her face began to contort into a mask of anguish, as if simply saying her own name caused her pain. Maybe it did. Her face rearranged itself into a more thoughtful pose; eyebrows together, mouth pursed. She came to some sort of decision and looked at him. "Gretchen Stirling." Her voice sounded raw, distant. She fell back into silence.

Bobby waited. Uncomfortableness settled in. He continued to wait, seeing if he could force her to speak next, or if she would be able to maintain her silence. She had asked to meet him; he figured she had something to tell him, but he was tired and he'd be damned if he was going to play twenty questions to....

"Have you eaten?" Her voice broke into his thoughts.

"I had a sandwich for lunch. I worked today."

She nodded. "I work tomorrow. Had to be back in town tonight."

"Where did you go?"

The waitress arrived then, and asked if they were ready to order. He watched Gretchen drag her tired eyes over her menu, which was written in Chinese, as opposed to the one he held, which was written in English. Looking up at him, she asked, "Are you hungry?" He shrugged. As she flipped through her symbol-filled pages, his curiosity piqued. Did she read Chinese? He knew the best food was probably on her menu and not on his. With that he did make up his mind. "Why don't you order for us both?"

"How adventurous are you?" she asked neutrally, studying her menu.

"I ate live baby octopus when I was stationed in Korea."

She didn't look up, but her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. "Did you like them?"

"It was an experience. Don't know that I'd like to repeat it tonight."

Her eyebrows lowered and she glanced at him. "No live baby octopus. Got it."

Gretchen tentatively asked the waitress a few questions in Chinese. He could see her struggling to decipher the answers, yet she doggedly continued in Mandarin, when he was sure the waitress was able to converse well enough in English. He could tell when the end of the conversation arrived and handed over his menu at the appropriate time.

"Fresh fish, couple of vegetables. Some noodles," Gretchen reported. "Did you want anything else? Soup?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine." The waitress nodded, moved away. He continued, "You speak Mandarin?"

"Very little. Enough to get the correct food to the table, find the bathroom, and ask a cab driver to take me to the airport. I had to learn that much when I went to China with a friend several years ago. I spent 5 days on my own while she dealt with family obligations. I stayed in a hostel, visited the night market, wondered just what form of bug was impaled on some of the sticks. Never got up enough nerve to try them." She took a deep breath, then looked quizzically at Bobby, as if she was wondering how so many words managed to get past her lips, then let her gaze fall to the table again.

He figured he might as well plunge into whatever brought him here. "Your kids are with your mother-in-law for the weekend?" As he watched her, her eyebrows moved again. She had to be a terrible poker player, he thought to himself. Every emotion seemed to transmit across her face.

Taking a deep breath, she responded. "It's difficult having holidays with a woman who wasn't fond of you even before her son died. But she loves your kids and they love her, so you go, but the whole time you're wondering how long you have to stay. Can't call on your friends; they're all married and traveling or hosting family of their own. Can't start drinking 'cause there's no reason to stop. Can't keep crying, 'cause you just don't have the energy for it anymore. You know?"

He nodded. He did know. "Well, the drinking and the crying I know. I'd have been well into a good drunk by now. No kids, never had a mother-in-law, no married friends."

She nodded. "Ah. Tall, dark, handsome, and single doesn't get you a date in this town anymore?" Her lip curled at one corner; Bobby thought that maybe she used to be good at witty banter, but she seemed sorely out of practice now. He decided to go along with her attempt at humor. "You forgot broken," he half-smiled as he replied, and seeing her eyes mist over, he then remembered that he had never been very good at witty banter.

She looked steadily at him for the first time. "I didn't forget." She paused, but her eyes stayed on him. "What was your mother's name?"

He finished off his now-cold tea and poured a new cup. When he thought he had his voice under control, he replied. "Frances."

"And your brother? What was his name?"

"Frank." Bobby looked at the tablecloth, trying to ignore the pain exploding behind his eyes.

"Named after your mother. And your mentor? Where is he now?"

"Declan? Sing Sing." What could he do to divert her questions? Ah yes, he remembered. Go on the offensive. "What was your husband's name?"

He hand came up to frame her face, but she still didn't remove her gaze from him. "Matthew."

Bobby snapped off another question, hoping to head off any more of hers. "How did he die?"

"We had a fight. I slept in the guest room that night. He had a cerebral aneurysm in his sleep, grade 5 by the time I found him and got him to the hospital. He died a week later. His mother blamed me for not being in bed with him, for not knowing he needed help in time to save him. It's okay, I guess. I blame myself for that, too." She finally turned her eyes away from him, began moving the teapot and their cups. "Food's here."

Bobby stared at Gretchen as the food was placed on the table, wondering how she survived the crushing guilt she must have felt after her husband's death, and how she managed to visit a woman who blamed her. He thought about his own guilt, which Declan just managed to add to instead of free him from, and tried to imagine a method to weigh guilt so that they could compare apples to apples. He was still thinking when she spoke again.

"The food here is pretty good. You should eat."

He roused himself out of his rumination and placed food on his plate. An undeclared truce was called, and the meal went on in relative silence, comments limited to the tastiness of the food and the pleasantness of the surroundings; after a while, Bobby noticed that most of the food was gone and that it was the first time in a long time he'd had a decent meal. He said as much to his companion.

"It must be hard to eat alone. I have to eat or the kids will notice. It's hard to hide things from them." She stopped, seemed to take in his state of mind after their fragile truce during dinner. "I wanted to thank you. The information you pulled together was truly helpful to my family. My daughter's in a support group now, and really likes being able to talk with kids her own age about her dad. My son still doesn't understand why we're sad so much. I'm learning how to handle that better, thanks to you." She again tried to evaluate his state of mind. "It did help. Knowing that I helped someone else."

Ah, he thought. The point of the meeting. She hadn't forgotten a word of their earlier conversation. She must have revisited it as much as he had. He shrugged. "It was nothing, really. I'm good at research." He watched the waitress bring the bill to Gretchen.

She nodded, letting his offhand remark pass, and extracted her wallet from her purse. He fumbled for his wallet so that he could cover his portion of the meal.

"Don't do that," she warned him. "You're my guest. And while I may not be a stunning conversationalist anymore, I still remember that the person who invites the guest pays for the meal." Her tone was quite clear. She would be hurt if he fought with her about this.

So he didn't. "Thank you for this. It was a lovely meal." He looked at her. "And it was nice to have company."

She nodded. "For me, too." She stood, and Bobby followed suit. After retrieving her coat and putting it on, she held out her hand to him. "It was nice to meet you, Bobby Goren."

He finished putting on his own coat, then sheepishly shook her hand. "The pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Stirling. Can I walk you to the subway station?"

"Oh, I'm not far. I'll just grab a taxi from here."

He opened the door to the restaurant, and she preceded him out the door. The silence and the cold settled in quickly. Rubbing his hands together, Bobby turned his head towards the subway station and thought through a variety of goodnight salutations, trying to decide which one was most appropriate.

Gretchen looked at him, her breath making little ghosts appear in front of her face. She turned to him, and with a serious look on her face asked, "Have you figured out how to be just you yet?"

He couldn't decide if the shock he felt was from the cold or the question. He shook his head.

She wrapper her arms around herself, either to keep herself warm or to give her courage. "When you figure it out, would you let me know?"

"I'll call you first," he replied with sincerity.

"Good." She gave the closest thing to a smile he'd seen from her. "Well then, goodnight..."

Not trusting his voice, he nodded, and watched her head to the busy corner and flag down a passing taxi. He nodded at her one more time as the cab stopped, and she gave him a small wave as she entered the taxi and closed the door.

Then he headed for home.


End file.
